Echoes of Coronation
The Fireborne spread across the fractured empire, their armor glinting with veins of ember, faces hidden behind helms that bore no crest. No nation claimed them. No god blessed them. They answered only to Kael.
But not all bowed so easily.
Atop the throne once belonging to the High Chancellor of Valemire, Kael sat not with ease, but with weight. The Darksword rested across his knees like a slumbering dragon, its pulse now aligned to his own.
The halls were empty of courtiers. No noble dared return.
Only Rhena remained.
She approached, cloak dragging across black marble scorched by flame. Her silver gaze hadn't dimmed, but there was a crack in it now—a doubt not even she could mask.
"So," she said. "What now, Fire King?"
Kael's jaw tensed. "I never asked for that name."
"You never had to. They gave it to you the moment you summoned an army from the ashes."
Kael stood slowly, the blade humming like a war cry. "I gave the world a choice: evolve or burn. And they chose flame."
Rhena stepped closer, undaunted. "Then I suppose you should know: some still fight in the north. The city of Myrrhold is raising its own champion."
Kael narrowed his eyes. "Another pawn?"
She shook her head.
"A prince."
The Northern Rebellion
Myrrhold had never been conquered. Not by the Elders, not by the Forged, not even during the Siege of Ten Suns. A city built into the cliffs, guarded by storms and pride, it had always watched from afar. Neutral. Cold.
Until now.
A rider arrived from the north, half-frozen, his steed nearly dead from exhaustion. His eyes were hollow, haunted.
"They've raised the banner," he rasped. "Not of the old kings. Not of the Council."
Kael watched him quietly.
"They raised the banner of the White Flame."
Rhena paled. "That's not possible. The White Flame… he died."
"Or so we thought," Kael muttered.
The White Flame. A prince who once fought alongside the Elders. A man made entirely of light—until he was betrayed and erased from history.
If he'd returned… it meant war.
Again.
Secrets in the Sword
Kael walked alone that night through the ruin gardens behind the palace, the air thick with ash and magic. He let the Darksword hang loose in his grip.
"I know you're still hiding something," he whispered to it.
The sword pulsed—twice.
He placed his palm on the black blade. It was warm now. Alive.
Memories hit him like thunder: not of his own, but of another wielder—centuries ago. A woman crowned in stars. A child born of shadow and light. A vow broken.
"You promised me peace."
Kael stumbled back.
"What the—"
A voice, female, echoed in his mind. Not the Leviathan. Not the sword.
Something older.
"You made me into a weapon," she whispered. "Now I want it back."
The sword hissed, a streak of red fire crawling up its edge. For the first time, Kael felt fear—not from what the blade could do, but from what it remembered.
Rhena's Ultimatum
When he returned, Rhena was waiting—this time with her sword drawn.
"I can't follow you anymore," she said.
Kael stopped short.
"What?"
"You're not the same man I met in the mines. You're not even the same man I saved in the Blackreach Arena. You're something else now."
Kael stepped forward. "You think I chose this?"
"I think you're enjoying it," she spat. "This power. This fire. It's consuming you."
He looked down at his hand—where faint flame flickered just beneath the skin.
"Maybe I'm already consumed."
She pointed her blade at his chest. "Then I'll stop you before you burn us all."
The Fireborne around them drew closer, their armor clinking softly.
Kael didn't order them to strike.
Instead, he nodded. "Then leave. But don't raise that sword again unless you're ready to finish it."
Rhena hesitated—then turned and walked away.
He didn't watch her go.
But something in him cracked as she did.
The Prince of Light
The reports came in like sparks from a dying forge. Sightings. Victories. Myrrhold had sent their prince—Aureon—to the southern border. He had already crushed two Fireborne battalions and burned the Ash Standard.
Aureon was not alone.
He wielded the Lightbrand—the twin of the Darksword. It gleamed like sunlight, pure and unyielding. And in his wake came stories of hope. Of healing. Of defiance.
The people whispered his name like a prayer.
Kael felt his grip tighten around the hilt of his blade. Lightbrand and Darksword had never been seen together.
Until now.
"Let him come," Kael whispered.
The sword pulsed once in agreement.
Ash and Light Collide
Two weeks later, the two armies met at the Vale of Bones—a place long abandoned by life. Fireborne on one side, silent and unyielding. Knights of Myrrhold on the other, armor gleaming with the northern sun.
And at the center—Kael and Aureon.
The prince of light dismounted first. Golden hair, calm eyes, a blade that sang in his grip.
"Kael of the Ash," he said. "Do you know what you've done?"
Kael chuckled. "Everyone keeps asking me that."
"I'm not here to kill you," Aureon said. "I'm here to end the war. We don't need to fight."
Kael raised his sword.
"But I want to."
They clashed.
And the world held its breath.